Where Dwell the Brave at Heart
by Harikari
Summary: Wherein Draco is sorted into Gryffindor, Harry has more of his famous unfortunate adventures, Ron gets angry, Hermione studies, and the entire student body thinks very carefully about where they stand when it comes to the approaching war. Mild slash.
1. Chapter 1

**Where Dwell the Brave at Heart  
by Harikari**   
**  
Summary: A story wherein Draco is re-sorted into Gryffindor, Harry has more of his famous unfortunate adventures, Ron gets angry, Hermione studies, and the entire student body thinks very carefully about where they stand when it comes to the approaching war. Harry/Draco preslash. Friendships galore. Rated M for violence and language.  
**  
**Warnings: Violence, strong language, eventual mild harry/draco slash, gore, shifting points of view, strong friendships, some het relationships, AU sixth year, etc. Definite spoilers for HP books 1 through 5 and likely spoilers for elements of book 6. **

**Disclaimer: Don't own em'. JK Rowling and some other lucky people and companies do. No copyright infringement is intended. I'm writing this for fun, not profit.**

**A/N: Feedback is very, very welcome and appreciated!**

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**"You might belong in Gryffindor,  
Where dwell the brave at heart,  
Their daring, nerve, and chivalry  
Set Gryffindors apart." - The Sorting Hat (SS, pg 118, US)**

**  
Chapter One: Summer's End  
**  
When the first day of September rolled around Harry Potter was both relieved and apprehensive. This was a strange mix of emotions and it caused his stomach to turn and flutter unpleasantly.

On one hand Harry was glad that school was starting again. Going off to Hogwarts for his sixth year meant seeing Ron and Hermione, meant getting away from the Dursleys, and meant being able to use magic and play Quidditch.

These were all pleasant things. These were the things that had encouraged Harry to wake up at five in the morning to shut Hedwig away in her cage and finish packing his trunk. Unfortunately, being able to fly his broom again and spending time with his two best friends weren't the only things he had to worry about. There were also reasons he _didn't _want to go back to Hogwarts.

For one thing, Sirius was gone now. Harry was, of course, _always_ aware of this. While pulling weeds that had sprouted up in his Aunt Petunia's yard that summer, or trading heated words with Dudley, or lying in bed at night. He always _knew_ it. But living with his muggle relatives had somehow dulled the pain of loss. Battling constantly with his sorry excuse of a family had allowed him to push his godfather's death to the back of his mind.

He was worried that merging once again with the magical world was going to prove too painful. He was worried that there would be too many reminders. He was worried that he would fully surrender to his grief. And he didn't want to do that. Didn't want to _think_ about it.

But Harry could occasionally be a logical bloke, and he almost always did the right thing. He knew that the right thing in this case was to go back to Hogwarts. Because honestly, what else could he possibly do? What else could he _want _to do?

So he had plucked his carpet clean of stray socks with holes in the toes, unwashed jeans bundled into untidy balls, and t-shirts that were several sizes too large for him. He had stuffed all of these things into his trunk. He had moved on to clean off the small desk that sat in a corner of his room; it had been covered with thick schoolbooks, empty ink bottles, and various sorts of quills. All of these things had also been put hastily into the trunk, and now Harry was waiting for his Uncle Vernon to say it was time to go.

"Well," growled Vernon suddenly, big red face poking into the room that had once been solely for Dudley's toys. "Hurry up, boy." Harry was surprised to see his Uncle so soon (he had just finished running a comb through his impossible hair), but he shot a look at his wristwatch and realized they would have to leave now if he wanted to get to King's Cross on time to catch the train to school. He had taken longer to sort out his room and his trunk then he'd originally thought.

"Right." Harry, who had been sitting on the edge of the bed, stood and quickly crossed the room. He grabbed his trunk, which was sitting against the closed closet door, and grabbed Hedwig's cage from its perch on top of the desk. "I'm ready."

Vernon merely grunted and led the way through the house and down to the drive where the car was waiting. They got into the car (Dudley was sitting in the back, taking up nearly the whole bench seat, and Harry had to squeeze in next to him) and were off.

Harry had the fleeting urge to ask why Petunia and Dudley had come along, but didn't. They were probably all going to shop for his cousin's school supplies or something equally as dull.

During the long, tense ride to the station Harry was quiet. Being taken to King's Cross by the Dursley's felt unnatural. No flying car, no magical bus, no Advance Guard coming to whisk him away...

It felt like first year all over again. Harry shifted uneasily in his seat.

When they finally reached King's Cross he hurriedly jumped out of the car and grabbed his things. He didn't watch the Dursley's pull away and disappear from sight. Instead, he concentrated on dumping his trunk and Hedwig's cage onto an available cart.

"I hate them," he mumbled while doing this, and looked back with horror at his earlier thoughts. How could he even have considered anything other than going back to Hogwarts? It was stupid. Hogwarts was his _home_.

Feeling as if a great weight had been suddenly lifted from his shoulders, Harry rolled his cart toward the platform where the Hogwarts Express was waiting for him.

-----

Platform nine and three-quarters was crowded. Harry dodged and stumbled his way around a sobbing witch who was telling her small son goodbye and a large group of third year girls who all giggled madly as he passed.

When he reached the entrance he quickly stepped up and into the train. He carefully maneuvered his way through the crowded corridor, smiling politely and muttering hellos to students he recognized. Finally, he glanced a familiar face he was willing to sit with and came to a stop in front of a compartment. He slid the door open – and stopped dead.

Neville Longbottom was in the compartment. He was sitting down with his wand held firmly in one hand and his eyes darting around nervously. He jumped when the door opened, then smiled widely when he saw Harry. But this is not what had caused the bespectacled teen to suddenly pause.

Draco Malfoy.

Draco _Malfoy_ was also in the compartment. He was sitting on the seat across from Neville, already wearing one of his school robes and staring vacantly out the window and down at the people shuffling busily about the platform. He hadn't looked up when Harry had slid open the door; he still hadn't looked up.

"Neville..." Harry started, but he stopped because he didn't know just what to say. What was Neville doing sitting in a compartment with Malfoy of all people? He shot his fellow Gryffindor a questioning look.

Neville caught his look and shrugged. "He just...I was sitting here already. He just came in and sat down." The teen tried to whisper all of this to Harry, but it was doubtful that Malfoy hadn't heard any of it.

Angry, Harry turned again to look at the Slytherin. "What are you playing at, Malfoy?" he spat. He put as much venom as he possibly could into it. Because _Draco Malfoy_ certainly shouldn't have been sitting in the same bloody compartment as Neville. Because Malfoy was an utter prat. Because everything Malfoy had done and said to Harry in fifth year was still fresh and clear in the Gryffindor's mind. All the trouble he'd caused with the Inquisitorial Squad, the 'my father will get you for landing him in Azakaban' threats – everything.

The Slytherin didn't seem startled at Harry's outburst. He didn't flinch, and didn't turn his gaze away from the window. "Sod off, Potter." His voice sounded hollow.

"No," said Harry, eyes glinting dangerously. He charged fully into the compartment, dragging his trunk and Hedwig's cage along with him. He dropped these things onto the floor with a _thunk_. Ignoring his snowy owl's indignant squawk he continued, determined to figure out just what the Slytherin was trying to pull. Some joke, most likely. Some sort of stupid prank. "You're the one who'd better sod off, Malfoy."

At first, this got no reaction from the teen. Seconds ticked by. Harry clenched his fists in anger. He was opening his mouth to say something more, to run the horrid blond right out of the compartment, when Malfoy spoke up. "Leave me alone," he said. "I haven't done anything to you or Longbottom."

"What?" The word came out too loud, but Harry hadn't been able to help it. Was Malfoy serious? Was he _serious_? "You haven't...What?" Again, much too loud. A couple of fourth year Ravenclaws who were passing the compartment stopped and gaped at the scene before them. Harry didn't care. "That's it, Malfoy. Get the hell out of here now. Right now before -"

"Harry! What's...Oh." The unexpected greeting caused the Gryffindor to jerk in surprise. He spun around and was met with the welcome sight of Hermione Granger. The girl was standing just inside the compartment, next to the door. Her eyes were wide; she was looking back and forth between the gaggle of spectators that had gathered to watch the drama unfold and Harry, who had bent close to the still unflinching Malfoy.

Harry straightened. "Hermione!"

The girl shot him a look that he couldn't quite read. "What's going on?" she asked quickly. "What's he doing in here?" Before Harry could answer she turned to drag her own trunk into the compartment. When she had both it and her fat ginger cat Crookshanks securely inside she turned and slid the compartment door closed, nearly smashing a curious Ravenclaw's nose.

Crookshanks hopped up onto the seat next to Neville and began batting playfully at the frog sitting on the Gryffindor's lap. Neville paled. "Shoo kitty," he said as Hermione wrestled her trunk into a corner, where it would be out of the way. "Shoo."

"Well?" asked Hermione. She put her hands on her hips and glared in what Harry felt was a very intimidating way. "What are you doing here, Malfoy?"

Harry cut in before the Slytherin could answer – that is, if the blond had in fact been _planning_ to answer. "He was just leaving," he said. "Weren't you?" He turned again to look at the blond.

Malfoy opted not to answer, or even to turn around to look at the other occupants of the compartment. This uncharacteristic silence, Harry had to privately admit, was giving him the creeps.

He saw the strange expressions both Hermione and Neville were sporting and realized they must be feeling the same way.

"Listen, Malfoy. I don't know what the hell you're trying to pull or what the hell is wrong with you, and I _don't care_." He made sure to enunciate that last part. He went forward, the anger that had receded with Hermione's arrival rising up again and running like electricity through his nerves. He leaned in, closer to the blond, and reached for an arm...

Before he could grab it the door slid open again. "Draco!" a feminine voice squealed. "I was looking for you!"

It was Pansy Parkinson. She had, apparently, spotted Draco through the compartment door's small square window and was now staring at all of the Gryffindors accusingly. "What are you doing with Potter and the Mudblood?" she asked.

Hermione shot her a dark look and seemed ready to punch the Slytherin girl. Harry glared – and his glare really wasn't working very well today, was it? Pansy completely ignored it and Malfoy _still _hadn't turned away from the stupid window.

"Draco?" Pansy tried again. She opened the door wider and made as if to step inside; she saw Hermione's face and the back of Malfoy's still-turned head and seemed to reconsider. "_Draco?_ What are you doing? We've all found a place to sit. It's near the back of the train. Come on."

Harry noticed, for the first time, that Pansy was not alone. Behind her, crowding the corridor with his bulk, was Blaise Zabini. Zabini was a tall, handsome black wizard from the Slytherin house. Harry didn't know much about him – he'd seen the teen occasionally roaming the school halls with Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle.

He noticed that Zabini's dark eyes were fixed firmly on the blond Slytherin.

"Get out," Malfoy said suddenly – _finally_ – and everyone turned to look at him, surprised.

"No!" Neville shouted this. He'd been sitting in the same spot, holding his frog, Trevor, over his head and out of reach of Crookshanks' claws. "We're not-" Harry had a moment to be proud of Neville's sudden bravery before the boy was cut off.

"Not _you_," drawled the Slytherin. "Pansy, _you_ get out."

There was a moment of dead silence.

And then, "What's the matter, Malfoy? Bad summer?" It was Blaise.

Very slowly, Malfoy turned away from the window.

Harry had to make a conscious effort not to gasp. Hermione and Pansy didn't bother to make an effort – they both let out little exhalations of what sounded like distress at the Slytherin's appearance.

"_Malfoy_?" Hermione asked, before anyone else could speak.

The Slytherin ignored her. He had turned to face Blaise. "Go to _hell_," the blond said. It took a long moment for Harry to actually absorb the fact that Malfoy was saying this to someone other than him. To a _Slytherin_.

He wondered why. Was it just because Malfoy thought Zabini was trying to be smart? Harry thought that was a bit harsh. Then again, Malfoy's father had been put into Azkaban near the end of fifth year. And Malfoy looked...bad. Maybe Blaise knew _exactly _what sort of a summer Malfoy had had.

Zabini seemed less than pleased with Malfoy's reply. In fact, he seemed livid. "Now listen here, Draco." His voice was a low, threatening rumble. "You may be able to speak like that to those scummy prats Crabbe and Goyle. But you sure as hell can't speak like that to _me_."

Malfoy rolled his eyes – Harry was glad for this glimpse of familiarity in the blond. He was acting so..._different_. It was unsettling.

"Fuck _off_, Blaise," spat Malfoy.

Zabini practically exploded. "You little shite!"

Pansy tried to break in. "Please," she said. "Please you two let's..." But the Slytherins weren't listening to her.

"What's you're _problem_, Draco? Huh? Did you miss your daddy this summer or something? Or is this about your mum? She in a bad mood because good ol' Lucius is gone? What happened? Did she go nutters again and lock you in-" Harry had no time to wonder where Malfoy's mother had locked him; had no time to wonder about anything Blaise had said. Because in a sudden rush Draco jumped out of his seat, shoved Harry and Hermione out of the way, and punched Blaise Zabini square in the nose.

"I'll kill you! I'll kill you!" Blaise shouted, clutching at his nose with a big hand.

And the fight was on.

Before Harry could truly comprehend what was happening Zabini had grabbed two fistfuls of Malfoy's robe and was pulling the blond out into the corridor. Pansy made a sound not unlike a pig squealing and hopped out of the way. "Stop it!" she tried from her new spot next to Hermione. "Stop it!" It was no use.

Malfoy, who seemed to have regained enough common sense to realize that Blaise would murder him in a fair fight, was pulling at the hands gripping his robe and aiming hard little kicks at his opponent's shins. "Let me go!" he was pleading. "Let me go Zabini or-"

"Or what? Your father can't protect you anymore, Draco." The tall Slytherin pulled back one large hand and rolled it into a fist. He landed the blow in Malfoy's stomach. The blond's breath left him in a _woosh_ of air. Then he faltered; his legs turned to jelly underneath him. But Zabini held the smaller teen up with one clenched fist and pulled back to aim again...

The train suddenly jolted to a start. Both of the Slytherins lost their balance. Blaise went stumbling backward before catching himself; both of his hands gripped the edges of a nearby compartment's door frame. Malfoy fell over and landed on his backside in the corridor.

Harry stepped forward to get a closer look. Blaise was breathing hard, looking at his housemate with murder in his eyes. He reached into the depths of his robe and pulled out his wand a second later. He was opening his mouth to say something when a door a few compartments down slid open.

"Hey," someone said.

Everyone turned to look and Harry saw that it was a seventh year Huffelpuff girl he didn't know the name of. Her Head Girl badge gleamed from where it was pinned to her robe. "What's going on there? All of you should be in your seats." She took a step out into the corridor and glared at the scene before her.

The blood from Blaise's injured nose had streamed down the tall Slytherin's face and was dripping from his chin to the carpeted walkway; some of it had even managed to get on Malfoy. Smeared, bright red finger stains stood out starkly on one pale cheek. The blond was still on the floor, looking ruffled and angry.

The Hufflepuff girl took another step closer. "What's going on?" she asked, this time with more interest.

"Nothing!" This from Pansy. The pug-faced girl came stumbling out of the compartment, a fake grin on her face. "Nothing! We were just going to sit down." She shot Malfoy a nervous look before marching straight over to Blaise and taking his arm. "Let's go."

The tall Slytherin shot one last withering look at his blond counterpart before turning and walking away, Pansy at his side.

"Are you sure?" asked the Head Girl, before the two had completely disappeared from view. She had spotted Harry in the doorway and was looking to him for an honest answer. "Nothing's-"

Abruptly and without thought Harry reached down and pulled the dazed Malfoy up off the floor. He shoved the Slytherin back into a startled Hermione and half-smiled at the seventh year. "Everything's fine," he said. The girl still didn't look convinced. "We'll all sit down now."

He slid the door closed before she had a chance to answer.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Feedback is appreciated!**

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**  
Chapter Two: The Malfunctioning Hat**

"Malfoy _decked_ him?" Ron was sitting directly across from Harry at the Gryffindor table and was gaping at his friend like a disbelieving fish. "But I've seen Zabini. Zabini is _huge_."

"I know," said Harry.

He was getting a little tired of Ron asking him about the fight. He had informed the redhead of every possible detail pertaining to it, and still the teen didn't seem to fully believe or comprehend it. Of course, Harry wasn't sure he believed or comprehended it himself. This made him feel a bit empathetic toward Ron and his shocked state. Still though, the bespectacled Gryffindor was growing weary of the subject.

Ron let out a great, disappointed sigh. "I can't believe I missed that." He looked at both Harry and Hermione with a hurt expression, as if it were somehow their fault that he'd decided to go to the prefect compartment early. "I'm never listening to mum again. I was the first one there for the meeting!" He shook his head. "For you that makes sense," he said, waving a hand in Hermione's direction. "But for _me_?"

Harry had to agree with his friend. Ron was not normally a person who showed up early for anything, most especially anything even remotely to do with his classes or prefect duties.

"So," Ron went on as if he had never stopped to whine about listening to his mother, "what happened after you got rid of that nosy Hufflepuff?"

"She's Head Girl, Ron." Hermione said this in a tone that suggested she thought the Hufflepuff deserved some respect.

"What happened, Harry?" Ron persisted, no hint of apology in his voice.

"Nothing happened," said Harry. A steady hum of chatter still filled the Great Hall, though it seemed to be getting softer and softer as the time for the first years to be sorted crept nearer. "Malfoy took his trunk and his owl and left."

"Left?" The redhead let out a low 'hmmm' of disbelief and shook his head. He leaned back, and it seemed as if he were now lost in his own thoughts.

Harry was glad. Ron's contemplative silence would give him a chance to take stock of the rest of the hall.

Green eyes swept across the three other house tables and toward the High Table. Harry saw that Dumbledore had ambled in sometime during Ron's ranting and was now sitting in his usual, high-backed chair. The headmaster's twinkling eyes caught Harry's and he winked. The Gryffindor managed a small smile in return before looking away.

Harry was still terribly embarrassed with the way he had acted in his fifth year. Of course, he hadn't exactly acted so rudely toward Dumbledore without good reason. Dumbledore had kept important information from the Gryffindor for years. Information about the prophecy involving he and Voldemort. Harry ignored the confused flush rising on his skin - partly from embarrassment, partly from remembered anger. He didn't want to deal with that right now.

"I wish things would hurry along," said Hermione, who was sitting to the left of him. She gave Harry an encouraging smile when he looked over at her, making him wonder if she'd seen his brief exchange with Dumbledore.

"Yeah," agreed Ron. "I'm _starving_."

Harry was rather hungry himself. He hadn't had anything to eat since about noon – and then it had only been a few pumpkin pasties and chocolate frogs from the trolley on the train.

Just as the teen was considering digging into his robe pockets for smushed and melted leftovers the Great Hall doors swung open and Professor McGonagall marched in, followed closely by a group of first years. The first years looked terrified, and Harry took a moment to remember his own sorting. He'd been nervous and worried – all in all it hadn't been a very pleasurable experience.

The first years were tucked in close to each other as they walked the expanse of the hall and approached the High Table. Some of them were looking up at the enchanted ceiling with awe. Harry looked up too and saw that tonight the ceiling was dark and cloudy, concealing most of the stars.

Professor McGonagall placed the familiar four-legged stool in front of the first years; on top of the stool sat the frayed and dirty Sorting Hat. The first years looked at the hat with confusion splashed across their faces; everyone else waited expectantly. The hat twitched. The rip in the brim of it that served as a mouth opened wide, and the hat began to sing:

_"Oh, you may not think I'm pretty,_

_But don't judge on what you see,_

_I'll eat myself if you can find _

_A smarter hat than me. _

_You can keep your bowlers black..."_

The hat went on. Harry squirmed in his seat. He wasn't sure what, but something about the song was bothering him; nagging at him.

Harry shot a look up at the High Table and saw that a few of the Professors were frowning. Even _Dumbledore_ was frowning, which was never a good sign.

The hat finished its song. There was some scattered, unenthusiastic applause. Professor McGonagall straightened her stance and pulled a scroll from the depths of her long robe. Harry knew this to be the scroll with the names of the new students listed on it.

"When I call your name," McGonagall was saying, "you will put on the hat and then sit on the stool to be sorted." She looked down at the list in her hands. "Brockelhurst, Anne!"

Harry watched as a girl with dark hair down to her waist walked nervously up to the stool. She grabbed the hat and put it on.

"It was the _same _song," Hermione said suddenly, as if she had just realized something.

Harry turned to her. "What?" He noticed that Ron was nodding at what Hermione had said and looked over at the redhead. "What?"

"The song," answered Ron. "It was the song the hat sang back when _we_ were sorted, Harry!"

"Oh," said Harry. His friends were right, of course. The song that the hat had just finished with was the same song he'd heard during his own sorting. That's what the nagging feeling was. That's what was wrong. Harry abruptly felt as if a horde of hyper butterflies were trapped inside his stomach.

The Gryffindor had been under the impression that the Sorting Hat spent all of its time sitting on a shelf in Dumbledore's office, thinking up the next year's sorting song. "Maybe it's lazy," he suggested. His friends turned to stare at him. "I mean, it _is _pretty old."

Ron shrugged; Hermione shook her head in the negative.

"Meyers, Liam!" called McGonagall.

"I'm pretty sure a hat can't feel fatigue," said Hermione.

Liam Meyers was sorted into Gryffindor. Harry, Ron and Hermione broke into applause with the rest of the Gryffindor table.

"No?" Harry felt sick. He wasn't sure why the stupid song issue was bothering him so much; the only thing he was sure about was that it _was _bothering him.

The ceremony went on. Finally, eight new Gryffindors had joined their table and McGonagall was calling the very last name.

"Williams, Michael!" The last first year stepped determinedly up to the hat, and was sorted promptly into Slytherin. Harry watched as Professor McGonagall rolled up her scroll. _Finally_, the sorting items were being put away. Finally, it was time to _eat_.

The Professor bent to get a grip on one of the sorting stool's legs and pulled.

It didn't budge.

There was some muffled laughter throughout the hall, but the butterflies in Harry's stomach seemed ten times worse. He shot another quick look at Dumbledore and saw that the Headmaster was glaring in the Sorting Hat's direction; the frown on the old man's face was now much more pronounced.

"Do you need some help, Minerva?" Professor Sprout was craning her neck to get a better look at her colleague and speaking in a very loud voice. McGonagall ignored her. The expression on the woman's face was even more severe than usual. She gripped the stool more tightly and tugged.

Still, nothing happened.

"I don't understand," said McGonagall. She seemed flustered and none to happy. "What could possibly...?" She let her sentence trail off into nothing and tried again to lift the uncooperative piece of furniture. "I don't _understand_," she said again, when it still refused to move.

Dumbledore got slowly up from his seat at the direct center of the High Table and made his way over to the Professor. "What seems to be the problem, Minerva?" he asked in that deceptively cool voice of his. A voice that suggested nothing unusual was going on in front of him - and even if there _were _something unusual going on it certainly wouldn't trouble him any.

Before McGonagall could answer the Headmaster had gotten his wand out – he'd literally pulled it from thin air – and was tapping at the Sorting Hat and stool with an investigative air.

"What do you think it is?" Professor McGonagall asked him. She frowned and swept her eyes around the Great Hall, as if suddenly realizing the number of eyes that were set on her and Dumbledore. "Perhaps we should dismiss the students..." Before anyone could argue that there was no _way_ they were going to be dismissed because they hadn't even _eaten_ yet, the Headmaster spoke up.

"Now really, Minerva. I don't think there's any need for that just yet. In fact, while we-"

He was cut short by Professor McGonagall's startled yelp. The scroll in her hand had suddenly turned a violent red color – she let it drop to the floor, where it rolled a few inches before coming to a stop at Dumbledore's feet. "It _burnt_ me," she said, alarmed. "It _actually_ burnt me. As if it were some sort of..."

"Spell," finished Dumbledore. Eyes glittering with something other than mirth, he bent to pick up the scroll. It wasn't red anymore. It had returned to its normal color and looked as innocent as scrolls usually looked – as innocent as they usually _were_. Carefully, with only the very tips of his fingers, the Headmaster managed to unroll it. He held the paper up close to his face. His eyes were obscured by his glasses as he studied the list of names. He stopped dead, just for a moment, when he reached the very end of the list.

Harry's heart gave a horrible jolt in his chest. _What is it? What in the hell is _wrong?

"There's another name here," Dumbledore said. He was looking at McGonagall. "A name you didn't call."

"What?" shouted McGonagall. "That impossible! I've called all the names on the list. The first years are all sorted!" She was shaking her head and her bun was bobbing. "I've _called _all the names on that _list_!" Harry wasn't sure if he thought the woman was overreacting or under reacting to the situation.

"Not all of them," said Dumbledore. His voice was flat. He turned his head. His eyes swept quickly over the Hufflepuff table, the Gryffindor table, the Ravenclaw table...

Harry followed the Headmaster's example; his gaze landed on the Slytherin table. Most of the Slytherins were gaping back at the rest of their schoolmates, wide eyed. Some – the ones who didn't seem to have been paying attention to the Sorting Ceremony at all – were talking animatedly at each other. These particular Slytherins fell immediately silent when they noticed the eerie quiet in the Hall, and the attention they were receiving.

"The name!" squawked McGonagall. Harry swung around in his seat and saw that the woman had grabbed the scroll away from Dumbledore. She was gawking at it stupidly. "There's another name, a new _name _here! It's-"

"Draco Malfoy," Dumbledore boomed. His voice was so loud that the name seemed to linger in the air of the hall for several long seconds. "Would you come up here, please?"

-----

"What's going on?" one first year asked from the end of the Gryffindor table. He'd hissed the question, and was looking back and forth between Dumbledore and the Slytherins with huge eyes. "Is this supposed to happen? What's going on?" If anyone had turned their eyes to look, they would've recognized the first year as Liam Meyers.

No one turned to look.

Harry's gaze, along with nearly everyone else's in the Great Hall, was focused on Draco Malfoy.

The blond looked surprised. His whole body tense, he was sitting ramrod straight and staring at Dumbledore. "Er...What?" he asked into the silence. "What?" Harry noticed that the Slytherin's hair, which was usually pristine, was now standing up in odd places – some of it had fallen to obscure his eyes and face. The dark circles under his eyes and the line of deep scratches on his neck that had caused Pansy and Hermione to gasp in surprise earlier stood out starkly against his white skin. His school robe looked decidedly rumpled. There was even an unnatural redness spread across his right cheekbone, though Harry wasn't entirely certain if this was leftover from the fight on the train, or just a blush due to all of the unexpected attention.

"Mr. _Malfoy_?" The Headmaster raised an eyebrow. He didn't look happy about having to ask more than once.

The surprise written plainly across Malfoy's face warped. It turned to anger. His eyes were narrowed when he finally replied. "I didn't _do _anything if that's what you're thinking. I haven't _done _anything. I'm _not _going up there!" His voice, which had been rising throughout the speech, broke a little on the last word. Harry was startled to realize that Malfoy was frightened.

"Please, Mr. Malfoy," said Dumbledore after a pause, and both his face and voice were a bit softer.

"I...alright." Not even Malfoy seemed capable of resisting the Headmaster's orders for long. Harry noticed Pansy Parkinson slapping the blond's arm in a 'hurry _up_' gesture before Malfoy stood and walked stiffly toward the High Table.

He stopped at McGonagall's side. "I didn't enchant that scroll," he said stubbornly. McGonagall was looking at the bedraggled Slytherin in a way that suggested she wasn't sure whether to scold or console him. Dumbledore didn't answer the blond. Instead, the old Headmaster seemed to be considering the Sorting Hat.

"Perhaps something's wrong with it. It _is_ rather old, isn't it?" Malfoy asked this, but McGonagall and Dumbledore ignored him. Harry saw the tightness of the Slytherin's jaw, the way he was wringing his hands together. The bespectacled teen suspected he might be rather pleased with the situation – Malfoy in some sort of _trouble –_ if he weren't so utterly nervous himself.

"Mr. Malfoy," Dumbledore said finally, looking up from his consideration of the stubborn items. "Would you be so kind as to take up the hat and have a seat?"

Harry's mouth dropped open. Next to him, Hermione made a startled little sound. Ron's expression didn't change; the redhead continued to gape at the scene before him, disbelieving. There were surprised little murmurs of sound throughout the hall. "What's going on?" some murmurs said. "I _told _you Dumbledore was nutters," said others. And also, "He can't be sorted _again_...can he?"

Harry leaned forward and gripped the edge of the table _hard_.

"Sir?" inquired Malfoy politely. He seemed thrown by the request. "Take a...? You're _serious_?" He looked doubtful.

Before the Headmaster could answer McGonagall gripped the blond's shoulder firmly with one thin hand and bent to hiss something into his ear. Harry imagined it was something along the lines of 'just do what the Headmaster says, Mr. Malfoy' – only probably more stern and vicious.

The Gryffindor watched in awe as Malfoy shot a look at the High Table. The blond's eyes landed on Professor Snape, who was the Slytherin Head of House and undoubtably the blond's favorite authority figure at Hogwarts. But Snape wasn't looking at Malfoy. Instead the greasy haired man was staring straight at the Headmaster, his eyes narrowed.

Apparently Malfoy would receive no help from his favorite professor this time.

"Please Mr. Malfoy," urged Dumbledore. "If you would just..." He tapped the edge of the stool with his wand again – it made a hollow _thunk thunk _noise and the old man looked imploringly at the Slytherin in front of him.

Feeling strange and detached, Harry watched as the blond stepped closer to the stool.

"Really?" Malfoy was looking somewhat green.

This time the Headmaster didn't reply.

The Slytherin took another step, bringing him as near to the stool as he could get without bashing into it.

Harry held his breath. He could feel his fingernails digging into the wooden table, making grooves.

And suddenly, in a move so quick Harry might've missed it if he'd blinked, Malfoy snatched up the frayed Sorting Hat, placed it roughly on top of his head, and dropped down onto the stool.

For a moment, there was absolute silence. Every eye in the hall was fixed firmly on the seventh year Slytherin.

From atop Malfoy's head the patchy hat twitched inquiringly. Seconds ticked by. The blond's expression morphed slowly; from resigned, to angry, to furious. "This is ridiculous!" he snarled finally. His face was shifting rapidly from red to crimson. "It doesn't make any sense! There's absolutely no _way_-"

"Mr. Malfoy," McGonagall broke in, even as the seventh year continued to rant, "just do as the Headmaster..."

Harry was trying to listen to them both, his gaze shifting from the irrate woman to the now brick red Malfoy, then back again. Next to him Hermione's eyes were huge, across from him Ron's expression was oddly ecstatic...

"GRYFFINDOR!" bellowed the hat.

Malfoy's mouth snapped shut. McGonagall stopped mid-lecture, an unnatural sort of squeaking noise emerging from her throat. Harry blinked.

There were several seconds of complete and utter silence in the hall.

"Well then," piped up Dumbledore a long moment later. "Mr. Malfoy, Professors Snape and McGonagall? Would you three come with me?" He turned to face the rest of the hall. "And as for the rest of you," he said, giving his wand a sharp little wave, "welcome to another – or your very first – year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Enjoy."

The tables were quite suddenly covered with food – feasts had popped into existence at all the house tables, dominated by large flagons of pumpkin juice and gold platters piled with turkey and ham. There was no movement for a heartbeat. And then, a soft hum of noise started up and students began to gingerly fill their dinner plates.

"Huh," breathed Hermione. Ron was shaking his head back and forth, slowly.

Harry watched Dumbledore leave the Great Hall, two wooden-faced professors and a ghost pale Draco Malfoy trailing him.

He looked at the grand feast in front of him, then down at his own empty plate.

He wasn't really very hungry anymore.


End file.
